


Mein Herz brennt

by mothmaiden



Category: Unsere Mütter unsere Väter | Generation War
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence, M/M, Nazi Germany, Older Man/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Sexual Confusion, Touch-Starved, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-10-21 16:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20696333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothmaiden/pseuds/mothmaiden
Summary: He didn’t dream of violence, this time, but of Hiemer’s mouth, deliciously wet.(The first time they'd met, he wondered. Wondered what it was about this man that made him so eager to please.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been a long, long time since I've written fic, and this is largely unedited, so please bear with me! Also: it's been FOREVER since I've seen the show. This was just inspired by rewatching clips and seeing the very strong tension and chemistry between them. Also, I know that in the beginning Hiemer is a Major, but he later gets the oak leaves on his uniform and the German equivalent of Colonel, just so everyone knows where I'm coming from. This first chapter contains no violence or anything untoward, but I will add warnings to the beginnings of later chapters due to their content.

In the semi-darkness, Friedhelm listened to his own breathing. The moon, full and waxy white, hovered visible through the half-draped window. The first time in three or four weeks that he’d slept in a bed, and instead of being comforted by it, he kept tossing and turning, sweat collecting in a pool at the base of his neck. It was unseasonably hot, and for the last two or three days they’d been anticipating heavy rains, a storm that had not yet broken. Even now, the sky was cluttered with clouds, the moon occasionally peeking its face through, almost shy. Stripped of his boots and jacket, he had left his uniform trousers on, somehow afraid that at any moment he’d be woken and required to leave this warm, slightly claustrophobic room. He’d rather sleep in the open, listening to the soft purr of insects, the quiet nestling of birds overhead. In here, it was too quiet.  
  
He was one of the few that had been allowed a room in the house, and though in the moment he’d felt a strange surge of pride, now he was wishing he was out there, curled up in the barn with the others. He was used to lying amongst the bodies of the other soldiers, smelling their sweat, hay or grass prickling uncomfortably through the thin cover of his undershirt. It was never something he’d admit, but he craved the contact, so desperately it was a physical ache. Sometimes another man would brush up against him, setting his heart racing. Back home, watching Wilhelm and Charlotte kiss and hug, touch so openly, his heart would fill with jealousy, setting a fire in his veins. Afterwards, he’d go to the bathroom, panting, and squeeze his hands into such tight fists it was painful.  
  
Pushing himself into a sitting position, he wrapped his arms tightly around his knees. Just outside of the window, he could barely make out the barn, yet it was a strange comfort, a testament to the fact that he was not completely alone. But even here, he was. He was not like the other men, and they knew it. Something off. He’s got nothing behind the eyes – that was one he overheard often. At first, he’d been too soft, a vulnerability, an open wound in their side. And now they regarded him with something that he thought might be fear. Worst of all, he wondered sometimes if he liked it. Let them be afraid, he’d think, indulging in a rare smile. If they could not respect him, then fear was the next best thing.

He was keenly aware of the fact that Colonel Hiemer’s room was the one beside his. He would pace, entertaining the thought of pressing his ear to the wall, but blanch when he realized what he was thinking. It was odd, not only an invasion of privacy – which he cared little about – but senseless. What would he get out of it, anyway? On occasion he would look at that man and think how badly he wished he knew what was going through his mind. Although they’d grown closer the longer Friedhelm stayed in his unit, he could not say that he truly knew him. He was evasive, quiet. And Friedhelm hated how he seemed to know everything about him, without his knowing anything at all about the Colonel.

It was Hiemer he thought of as he stretched back out, lying on his front, his face half-pressed to the pillow. Eventually, the sound of the wind, rustling through the trees situated just above the house, lulled him into a restless sleep. Disjointed images passed through his mind, of violence, of his finger on the trigger.

——

Watery sunlight filtered through the tattered drapes, falling in streaks across the mussed bed-covers. With a yawn, Friedhelm stretched his arms out above his head, the joints of his arms giving a satisfying crack. It was only upon noticing how high the sun was in the sky that he was filled with a rush of alarm. _Fuck_. Probably nearing twelve, he guessed, a full seven hours later than he was usually woken. The wind was still blowing in powerful gusts, rattling the outside shutters on the windows the floor below.  
  
A simple mirror hung in the room, with its small, marbled basin, intended for washing one’s face in the mornings. He looked himself over: dark circles beneath his eyes, his face pale and gaunt. He’d lost weight, maybe twenty pounds or more, since he’d joined Hiemer’s unit. Some of it was expected, coming off during the weeks of relentless stress, the lack of normal provisions, though as an extension of the SS’s long arm they were unusually well-cared for. But the majority of it had happened later, once he’d found himself taken underneath the Colonel’s wing. The killings. Sometimes, once they were done, he would be so nauseated he would go and throw up in the bushes, making certain that he was out of earshot. Over time, he realized that it had turned from disgust to excitement. He would be so keyed up, and on such an empty stomach, that he couldn’t handle it. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.  
  
In his thin undershirt, he looked almost boyish. His frame, in spite of the weight loss, was noticeably more muscular than it had been in the early days, borne out of hardship. Still, he was thinner than most of the others, an easy target due to his slimness and the fact that he was short, fine-boned. It was another reason he found himself sometimes caught in admiring the Colonel. Though he was small, only two or three inches taller than Friedhelm himself, it made him no less formidable.  
  
He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it away from his face, wishing he could go and ask for water but knowing he had little time. Slinging his jacket on, he buttoned it up quickly, fumbling to lace his boots, his fingers trembling. It was fear pulsing through him now. He could only imagine what Hiemer would have in store for him, due to his disobedience. Was he missing something? He glanced out of the window, at the barn, with its door now propped wide open. The rest of the soldiers were sitting on the grass, smoking cigarettes, talking with two of the farmer’s daughters. The girls were giggling, rolling their shoulders, clearly delighted to be in the presence of soldiers. Maybe something was up. It was strange, anyway, being quartered here.  
  
It was quiet downstairs. He kept to the edges of the steps, silently making his way into the parlor, its cozy decorations striking an odd chord amongst all of the chaos the world was going through. Sitting on the sofa, with her legs crossed primly at the ankle, was a young girl, perhaps ten or eleven. Her blonde hair was plaited in one long rope down her back, the face childish, her cheeks still rounded with baby fat. “Hallo,” she greeted him, waving shyly. “You can call me Anka.” Her German was simplistic, but decent enough, especially for a girl of her age.  
  
“Anka.” He felt strange, out of place. Scattered along the mantel of the fireplace were photographs, snapshots of their family, all four girls and their mother and father. “Where is everyone else?” He spoke in Polish, doubting that she would understand anything more complicated than a hello and an introduction. He’d picked it up, as they all had, after a few months. It was an odd language, hard to get one’s tongue around, though he imagined they thought the same about German.  
  
Looking a little surprised, she nodded. “The other soldier, the older man, is in the dining room.”  
  
He gave her a perfunctory thank you, making his way aimlessly through the house. It was not large, yet it was unfamiliar, for he had not gotten acquainted with it whatsoever the night before. One of the older girls had shown him to his room, and he had gone straight to bed, in spite of the light still in the sky. There were moments when he wanted to be alone, away from the others, able to hear his own thoughts.  
  
It was the kitchen he went through first. The walls were painted cheerful yellow, the cupboards and cabinets faded white. There was a strong scent of food, of meat and probably bread, which he assumed had been cooked earlier in the day. There was another, small door of dark wood which led into the dining room. In spite of their plain way of living, it was perhaps the most ostentatious room he’d seen yet, a place meant for other people’s eyes. Fine china was in the cabinets, decorated with scenes of wildflowers, pretty little birds and other delicately drawn animals. Seated at the large table were Hiemer, the farmer, and the girl Friedhelm had met the night before.  
  
“Good morning,” the Colonel said to him in German. “Finally feeling like joining us?”  
  
He stood, instinctively, at attention. There was an air of discomfort, though whether it had been present before his entrance he could not say. The girl was perhaps twenty or twenty-one, good-looking, her features distinctively Eastern. She looked nothing like her father, who sat quietly at her side, clutching her hand in his. Her mouth was friendly, wide, turned up into a smile.  
  
“Colonel,” Friedhelm said, relaxing only slightly when he gave a wave of his hand, meant to indicate that he should stand at ease. “Good morning,” he added to the others, more out of politeness than anything.  
  
“This is Herr Baranowski, and his daughter, Ewa.” He crooked a finger, beckoning Friedhelm to come closer, which he did without thinking. “Sergeant Winter,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. Or perhaps it was weak coffee, though Friedhelm seriously doubted that they would have been able to afford such a luxury, particularly since they lived so far from the nearest village, a small place in its own right. “Take a seat,” he told Friedhelm, without looking at him. Ewa and her father eyed one another, disturbed by the rapid switches of language.  
  
“Hello.” Aware of his own awkwardness, Friedhelm sat down, taking the seat closest to Hiemer’s. The older man glanced at him, regarding him for a moment, likely inspecting him for any flaws. Friedhelm had lost count of the times that he’d corrected him on something, no matter how trivial it was. Even a hair out of place guaranteed a severe lecture. He expected perfection in his men, to the point of nearing the impossible. Yet something like an adrenaline rush would course through Friedhelm when he managed to secure Hiemer’s praise. It was elusive, and hotly pursued. He couldn’t help but feel smug when he was complimented in front of the others, knowing how badly they all fought for it.  
  
“Are you hungry?” Ewa, smiling still, made to rise from her seat, but quickly Friedhelm put up a hand.  
  
“Please,” Hiemer murmured, the corners of his lips quirking. “He would like something to eat.” Biting back a protest, Friedhelm kept his eyes trained on the table, carefully avoiding Herr Baranowski’s gaze. How badly he wanted to stand up, ask that man what he wanted from him. To tell them to leave? As if. The thought was laughable. Hiemer listened to no one but himself. Surely he had a superior, somewhere, but he might as well have been nonexistent when it was just him and his soldiers in the field.  
  
She returned, carrying a plate of hot bread and sausage, the other hand holding a tiny little teacup. Friedhelm pushed his chair back, helping her to bring everything to the table. Hiemer’s eyes glinted with interest as he watched the interaction, his boot tapping idly against the wooden floorboards. “I hope you enjoy,” Ewa said softly, growing sheepish, her cheeks beginning to redden in a blush. “It isn’t much.”  
  
“It’s fine.” She looked a touch deflated, hearing Friedhelm’s casual dismissal. He didn’t know what she wanted him to say.  
  
“He’s brusque with everyone.” Hiemer, smiling, looked at Friedhelm as he spoke. He could be so charming when he wanted, something Friedhelm was only too aware of. His facade was always carefully composed, completely flawless, displaying no cracks. “Don’t take it to heart,” he added, looking at Ewa now, giving her a wink.  
  
She laughed, touching the back of her neck, hiding her face beneath the curve of her blonde hair. Irritation prickled him. If he thought that was amusing – gritting his teeth, Friedhelm forced his anger away, not really certain why it bothered him so badly. He was used to the jokes, to being laughed at. Or he had been, once, anyway. “Are you enjoying Poland?” Ewa asked, very innocently, encouraged by Hiemer’s little display of humor.  
  
Friedhelm couldn’t help but laugh, though there was no mirth in his eyes. Placing his hand over his mouth, he nodded, then shrugged one shoulder, noncommittal. Hiemer shot him a look of annoyance. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a sip of the weakly brewed tea. “Yes, I’m enjoying it.” How could she be so foolish? So ignorant of everything, taking place just outside her family home? It was impossible to fathom. An innocence he’d lost so long ago he could barely remember it now. “Your country is beautiful.” A blatant lie, for if he thought her country was so beautiful he would not be spending his time destroying it.  
  
Hiemer’s kindness was setting him on edge. How vividly he could conjure up the face of that little girl he’d turned around, shot through the back of the neck. A trick Friedhelm himself used these days. Never had he seen him speak so softly, so kindly, to anyone, when it was not to his advantage. That veneer of charm. Some days even Friedhelm could see through it. “Thank you,” Ewa said, disproportionately pleased with the comment. Her eyes were pale, greenish-blue, and the hand she put beneath her chin was delicate, feminine in its small palm. He tried to think of things Wilhelm had said before about girls, but nothing came to him. He never paid it much attention, for although he could look at a girl and acknowledge the fact that she might be beautiful, he felt no desire to approach her, to try and strike up a conversation. Ewa was what most men would have thought of as beautiful, or at the least, very pretty. He wondered if that was what Hiemer was thinking, talking so warmly to her, not quite paternal.  
  
A surge of jealousy passed through him. It was the first time he’d experienced it since leaving home. It was harder this time to determine its origin, for usually it stemmed from watching others engage in physical contact, something as simple as holding hands. He wasn’t sure if he liked Ewa, but he didn’t think so. He’d just met her, after all, and in spite of her outward prettiness he didn’t know anything of her beyond that. To his knowledge, he’d never had a crush, or anything intense enough to be considered one. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and when he looked up, it was him that Hiemer was staring at.  
  
Beneath the table, he felt something brush against his leg. Furrowing his brow in confusion, he put it down to someone mistakenly crossing legs, a likely accident when they were all sitting so close. He felt it again, a little stronger this time, a warm, strong leg touching the outside of his thigh. It was Hiemer, then. It couldn’t have been Ewa or her father, sitting across from him. He glanced at his superior, who raised an eyebrow at him, holding his gaze for a moment too long. Accidental, of course. A mistake. But it had happened twice, hadn’t it? He supposed it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that it had occurred two times, unintentionally. A strange heat pooled in him, warming his limbs, the entirety of his body. It was like blushing, but everywhere. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he took another swig of tea, unable to draw up an appetite.  
  
He felt it again, and this time he couldn’t stop his soft intake of breath. “Are you all right?” Herr Baranowski asked, fatherly in his concern. Friedhelm forced a tight smile, nodding, his stomach turning nervously. Hiemer chatted idly with Ewa, his eyes occasionally finding Friedhelm’s, so intense that he would look away first each time. He was hot, sweat beading along his temples.  
  
“I’m not hungry,” he said, giving Ewa an apologetic smile. “Thank you for your hospitality. I think I’ll step outside.” He pushed his plate away, standing up and saluting Hiemer before leaving, all too ready to be out of that room.  
  
Outside, he made his way around to the back of the house, where he would be out of sight. The wind was cold against his sweating face, relieving. The sun had traveled back behind the thick cloud cover, leaving the landscape bleak, depressingly gray. When he closed his eyes, he could feel Hiemer’s leg against his, the sensation sending something almost like a thrill through him. His heart, when he placed his hand over it, was beating as fast and hard as a hummingbird’s wings.  
  
“Fuck,” he whispered, wiping the sweat from his face, his mind clouded. “Get it together, Friedhelm.” A question he’d often pondered popped into his head:_ What’s wrong with me?_

“Taking some time alone?” The voice startled him. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, perhaps twenty or thirty minutes, but he’d lost track somewhere along the way. It was Hiemer, his voice low. He would have recognized that voice anywhere, quiet as it was, almost soft-spoken for a man in such a position. It wasn’t deep, but nonetheless pleasant. It could’ve been soothing, in the right circumstances. Friedhelm, frustrated, said nothing. It was exactly the one person he wanted to escape, the smothering, oppressive force that loomed over all of them. “Did you sleep well?” He asked, conversational. Friedhelm’s guard was up.  
  
“Fine, thank you, Colonel.” Leaning up against the back of the house, he eyed Hiemer warily. He removed his lighter and a thin packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket, offering one to Friedhelm. Careful not to let their fingers touch, Friedhelm nodded his thanks, hoping that Hiemer would not notice his shaking hands. “Why didn’t you wake me, Colonel?”  
  
“I thought you could use the sleep. Everyone’s done well. I thought you could all use a moment of peace.” Suspicious, Friedhelm kept his eyes on the treeline. From the corner of his eye, he watched Hiemer light his cigarette, giving it a bit of a flick before putting it between his lips. “She’s pretty.”  
  
“Who?” He was genuinely clueless, surprised to hear Hiemer’s soft, low laugh.  
  
“Ewa, you idiot.”  
  
“Oh. Yes, I suppose she is.” Shrugging, Friedhelm realized he was still clutching his unlit cigarette.  
  
“Need a light?” Hiemer asked, nonchalantly. Friedhelm placed it between his lips, leaning forward, expecting him to hold the lighter against the tip, but instead Hiemer pressed his own cigarette to Friedhelm’s. He cupped them with one large hand, ropy with veins.  
  
Friedhelm pulled away, inexplicably embarrassed, his first drag too deep. He coughed, tucking his face in the crook of his elbow, disoriented. Hiemer nearly smiled.  
  
“She’s got her eye on you, you know.”  
  
“Ewa?” Friedhelm asked, taking a moment to realize it was a stupid question. “I don’t think so. She’s kind, that’s all.”  
  
Hiemer scoffed, flicking ash from the butt of his cigarette. “Don’t be so daft. I’m sure she’s in there right now, in the kitchen, thinking about you.” Friedhelm shook his head, dismissing the idea. It was absurd. If Ewa did not treat everyone like that, he would’ve been very surprised indeed. “You know,” Hiemer said, blowing circles of bluish smoke, “I wish they were all like you.” Aware that Hiemer was gauging his reaction, Friedhelm turned his head away, pretending to look at the cattle in the distance.  
  
“I’m not sure I understand, Colonel.”  
  
“So devoted.” Friedhelm pulled in a lungful of his smoke, craving the nicotine rush, his mind whirling. “Your loyalty is your honor, as they say.”  
  
“I’m not like my brother.” The words came out harder than he’d intended, sharper, but he was not going to back away now. “I’m nothing like him.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Sergeant. I can assure you of that.” A drop of rain fell onto Friedhelm’s cheek. He wiped it away, vicious. Wilhelm. He hated thinking of him, of what his brother would say to him, seeing him now. The monster he’d feared becoming. “Sergeant,” Hiemer said softly, breaking him from his thoughts.  
  
It was raining in earnest. Pattering quietly against the earth, the whole world seemed to come to a hush. As if Hiemer was the only other person. He looked at those hands, capable, and very cruel. They were handsome hands, perhaps a pianist’s, long before he’d become a hardened soldier. “You should go back inside. You’ll get soaked.”  
  
He did as Hiemer said, holing up in his room, listening to the thin voices of the girls’ drifting up through the floorboards.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friedhelm sees something he shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for self-loathing and internalized homophobia.

Nearly two hours had passed since he’d fallen asleep. It was raining again, though lightly this time, thunder rumbling ominously. Outside, it was dark, the moon lending little light, the shadows seeming to take shape amongst the bushes and trees. Impulsively, Friedhelm stood, throwing on his jacket but not bothering to button it closed. For just a second he hesitated, then went to the wall, pressing his ear against its peeling paint. Nothing. Asleep, of course. Everyone else probably was at this hour. 

The rooms, so silent and dark, were ghostly in the intermittent flashes of lightning. He encountered no one else, and when he stepped outside he saw the barn was closed up, its eyes watching him. Thunder split the sky, the rain growing fiercer, the window blowing so powerfully that it sent gooseflesh racing up Friedhelm’s arms. 

Within seconds he was soaked, his dark hair slick against his head. There was a faint light burning in one of the other outbuildings, an outdated shed used many years ago, perhaps for pickling vegetables. That feeling was coming over him, the curiously strong belief that something was happening, or was on the verge of happening. Following his instincts, he approached the building, unsure of what he might find. One of the windows was just low enough for him to see through, though he was forced to stand on the tips of his toes. His head felt muddled, dazed. It was like being in a waking dream.

It was Ewa he saw first. Her thick, fair hair was undone, falling in coils and waves down her back. She was petite, slight, somehow looking thinner in the old nightgown she wore. The light came from a flickering lantern, something they probably reserved for storms. She stood, her arms thrown around Hiemer’s neck, her fingers curling and uncurling on the front of his jacket, which he wore despite the intimacy of their interaction. Friedhelm blinked. He dropped back down onto his boots, flat to the earth, his heart hammering so loudly he could hear it in his temples. 

He looked again. They were kissing, feverish, and even over the rain he could hear her startled moan as Hiemer parted her lips forcefully with his fingers, before resuming their kiss, more deeply this time. Jealousy pulsed through him again, more strongly than before, building slowly into something that resembled anger. But he couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t take his eyes off of them, though it was not Ewa he was watching so intensely. The top three buttons of Hiemer’s coat were undone, revealing a stretch of his neck, the tendons standing out. One of his large hands was on her hip, drawing up the gown, the other clutching the nape of her neck so tightly it must have hurt. 

His heart stuttered when Hiemer’s eyes met his. His first instinct was to quickly pull away and leave, but he was paralyzed, a deer caught in a wolf’s penetrating stare. Hiemer smiled, pulling away from Ewa’s embrace, a lock of his hair falling over one eye. He looked painfully handsome. He was saying something to Ewa, who made a little noise of disappointment.

Quickly, Friedhelm dropped to his feet, stumbling from dizziness. Cringing as he heard the door open, he wondered if he should leave or simply own up to it. Somehow he doubted that Hiemer would let it go. He was mortified, humiliated, particularly because his skin was hot with excitement. Letting his eyes readjust to the darkness, he made to stride off, only to feel Hiemer’s fingers gripping his upper arm in a vicelike clasp. 

Neither of them said anything, and Friedhelm allowed him to drag him round to the edge of the house, where the moonlight was the strongest. He wanted to be in the darkness, sink back into it like an animal. Hiemer pressed him against the wall, his hands resting on either side of Friedhelm’s head, keeping his body carefully distant. 

“You’re blushing, Sergeant.” It was strange, hearing his voice, so husky. In the half-light, he could see Hiemer’s mouth, how red and swollen it was from kissing her, his hair silver in the moonlight. Friedhelm turned his head to hide his face, but Hiemer grabbed his jaw in his iron grip. He squeezed, until Friedhelm was furrowing his brow, wincing in pain. 

“You like watching?” If he had not been fiercely embarrassed before, he was now. He was desperate to escape from Hiemer, but he had settled against him now, trapping him with his weight. Friedhelm bit back a gasp, feeling Hiemer’s strong thigh sliding between his own, his breath coming in little pants. “Fuck,” Hiemer hissed, his voice cracking just a little. “You’re hard.”

Friedhelm was sweating beneath his jacket. He couldn’t take much more of this, of – whatever this was. He was growing more and more confused by the minute, for he had expected Hiemer to be furious, although he supposed he was using this as an opportunity to humiliate him. Ever so slightly, Hiemer moved his thigh again, smiling faintly at Friedhelm’s gasp. He both wanted him to stop, and couldn’t bare the thought of him leaving now. 

Slowly, Hiemer pushed his jacket aside, sliding his hand up underneath it, his hand warm and slick with the rain. It wasn’t long before he met bare skin, running his hand over the back of Friedhelm’s searingly hot shoulder. Their noses brushed, just for a second, and Friedhelm couldn’t help but move forward, desperate for any sort of contact. Hiemer laughed, but instead of being horrified, he found it only inflamed his senses further. 

Hiemer noticed it, of course. Almost curiously he brushed his lips across Friedhelm’s, who opened his mouth instinctively, unable to suppress a soft noise of frustration. He couldn’t bring himself to care that he was soaked to the bone, that he would probably be ill the next morning from the cold and wet. None of it seemed important. He flicked his tongue along Friedhelm’s upper lip, and then pulled away slightly, his eyes dark and unreadable. 

He pushed his forefinger into Friedhelm’s mouth. At first Friedhelm did not know what he wanted, what exactly he would get from this, but when his tongue skimmed across the tip of Hiemer’s finger, he jerked slightly, pressing his eyes shut for a moment. It was a moment before he regained his composure, and with his mouth at Friedhelm’s ear, he whispered, “Suck.” 

Obedient as always, Friedhelm did as he asked, daring even to nip at his soft flesh. He took him in to the knuckle, Hiemer stroking his cheek with his thumb, in an act that could have been tender. With a pop he pulled his finger from Friedhelm’s mouth, and once more Hiemer ran them gently over his lips and chin, before releasing him. They were both breathing heavily, and a pain shot through Friedhelm’s chest as the other man moved away.

“Wait.” His voice was barely a croak, nearly inaudible in the rainfall, but Hiemer stopped. He didn’t know what he was going to say, what he wanted to ask. He pictured Ewa, what they had been doing, and he realized that he wanted Hiemer’s mouth on his. Maybe he was disgusted by this, by Friedhelm, caught up in the moment but coming back to his senses. Maybe men didn’t kiss, like women and men did. It wasn’t normal, was it? He knew, vaguely, of homosexuality, but he thought of it little, for it always sent a pang of terror hammering through him. Perhaps now he knew why.

“Go to bed, Sergeant,” Hiemer said, coldly. “You’ll catch your death.” 

“Colonel.” Even now, he could be respectful. A fatal flaw.

“Bed, Sergeant,” he repeated, more softly this time. 

In his room, Friedhelm stripped out of his wet clothes, leaving them on the floor. He couldn’t stop thinking about the Colonel, in the room next to his, couldn’t stop wondering if his mind was racing as rapidly as Friedhelm’s was. Shivering, he climbed beneath the bed-covers, his teeth chattering audibly. He didn’t dream of violence, this time, but of Hiemer’s mouth, deliciously wet. 

——

It was dawn when he woke. The sky was bruised purplish, the sun making its way slowly upwards, the few visible inches not hidden in the canopies of trees orange. At first he thought, it was a dream, shameful as that was. The thought that he was dreaming of another man, of being at his mercy, was painful. The sight of his clothes, crumpled and wrinkled from drying out overnight, sent a shock-wave through him. It was no dream. He pictured himself, aroused and hot, Hiemer’s finger in his mouth. 

Burying his face in his hands, he bit his tongue, forcing away the tears he could feel quickly rising to the surface. Disgusting. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. And Hiemer must have thought so, too, for all his panting and touching. Lust, he thought, that was it. Pure lust. Perhaps it was a product of their environment, the desire that was springing up between them, one-sided though it might have been now. Did that happen? He tried to think of the other soldiers, if he’d ever noticed anything untoward happening between them. But the truth was that he was so often lost within his own world, he wouldn’t have seen it had it been occurring right in front of him.

A soft knock sounded at the door. “Just a moment,” he called, sounding stronger than he felt. He was afraid that it was Hiemer, coming to tell him how disgusted he was, how he was going to be demoted or, worse, moved to a new unit entirely. He knew, deep in his gut, that he wouldn’t survive it a second time. He slipped on his trousers, pulling his undershirt over his head, and opened the door, affecting a casual lean against the door frame.

It was Ewa, looking girlish, her hair loose around her face. Quickly he looked at their feet, for the sight of her brought all of his shame rushing back up. She must have taken it for embarrassment, for she giggled softly, and handed him a jug. “It’s hot water,” she said, flirtatiously. “I thought you might need some.”

“Thank you.” She was looking at him closely, at the fine, wiry muscle in his arms and shoulders, the flat stomach she could see through the thin fabric of his white shirt. Awkwardly, he smiled. “I need to get ready.”

“Of course.” With one last look over her shoulder, she darted down the stairs. Friedhelm shut the door, leaning against it heavily, the warmth of the jug soothing on his hands. Pouring it into the basin, he splashed the steaming water onto his face, running it under his arms and anywhere else he thought he needed it. He felt better, if only slightly. The true test of his strength would be seeing Hiemer again. Would he bring it up? Or would they just pretend, act as if nothing had happened? Friedhelm, for his part, could not stop thinking about the things Hiemer had done, the feelings he’d brought up in him. Never had he felt anything similar, particularly with women. It confounded him. Something that set him apart from others, that he wasn’t so sure he could accept.

The earth was damp, sinking slightly beneath the weight of his boots. He borrowed a lighter from one of the other soldiers, who tried to engage him in conversation. “I’m not in the mood,” Friedhelm said coolly, stalking back to the house. The scent of the smoke, the taste of it, was heady. Fuck, he thought. I wish I could take a fucking bath. 

In the dining room, Ewa served him a similar breakfast as the one before. Hiemer was nowhere to be seen, but for all Friedhelm knew, he’d risen even earlier, gone to do something that only a man of his rank was privy to. Constantly he was on edge, jumping whenever anyone entered the room, his hackles raised. He felt like a cornered animal, and any moment he knew he would encounter the hunter.

“Good morning,” Anka said, sitting across from him, her feet dangling beneath the table. “You look sleepy.”

“I’m all right, thanks,” Friedhelm mumbled, picking at his food. It was disrespectful, something that would have made his mother fly into a rage, but he had no desire to eat. All of it looked disgusting to him.

He drank two cups of tea, the only thing he could manage to get down. The parlor was empty this time, and Friedhelm paced, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Unable to hear much over the sound of his own feet, he halted, frozen, to hear Hiemer’s voice.

“You’re up early this morning.” Without his cap, Friedhelm could see the gray threading through his blond hair, the fair eyebrows that framed his pale, assessing eyes. 

“Yes, Colonel.” A soft, frightening silence followed. Slowly, methodically, Hiemer approached him, driving him backwards until he was once more pinned between the man and a wall. 

“You look tired,” he said, clucking his tongue, as if it were a shame. “Didn’t sleep well?” The suggestiveness of his tone caused a flush to begin rising, making its way up Friedhelm’s neck, burning his hairline. “You know,” he said, clearly at ease, “When you first joined my unit, I saw it in you. That capacity for death, something very few have. It’s an admirable quality, in a time of war. They all think they can do it, that they’re strong, but...” 

He didn’t dare to breathe. Hiemer’s breath was warm on his face, smelling slightly of cigarettes, strangely pleasant. “But they’re wrong. None of them are quite like you, Winter. Today’s the day, don’t you think?” He stepped away. “It’s time we got back into the swing of things. Every moment we spend here is a waste of your talent.”

Friedhelm nodded, maintaining his silence. Hiemer raised a brow. “Don’t you have something to say?” His lips curled in amusement.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Colonel.”

“Good boy.” He tapped his gloved fingertips against Friedhelm’s cheek. With a shiver, Friedhelm watched him walk away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, big trigger warnings for this one. Death, violence, blood, and there is a explicit scene describing the Einsatzgruppen's methods as well as Friedhelm actively killing.

The people of Pilzno were quiet. Passing by them in the streets, they would sometimes give Friedhelm a fleeting smile, both afraid to acknowledge him and fearful that if they did not, they would be considered traitors. It was small, with people rising early in the morning, hard-workers. A hush had fallen over their unit. The men chatted at night, sharing a rare bottle of beer or cigarettes, offering it to Friedhelm unsmiling. He knew that they were forced to bring him into their festivities, that it was out of no desire to be friendly. The first few nights they’d spent traveling, Friedhelm would curl up on his own, listening to their breathing grow deeper and more rhythmic as they slowly drifted into sleep. Some of them had nightmares, or dreams, talking quietly. He often stayed up later than the others, lying there, listening to them talk before the fire had burnt out. They talked about him in whispers, though instead of discussing his kill count or his reputation as a perfectionist, their discussion now drifted into new territory.

It was only natural that others had noticed the distance he’d kept from Hiemer in the last few weeks. They’d been close, before, nearly inseparable at times, and though Friedhelm still acted as his chauffeur, he was careful to ensure that they were never alone for more than ten minutes at a time. He was afraid, mostly of himself. Left alone with him again, he worried that the weakness Hiemer had uncovered in him would rise back up to the surface. And there was another fear, too, that Hiemer was repulsed by him. Their discussions were cool, formal, the epitome of professionalism. They only time they allowed themselves to slip into a sort of joint, giddy excitement was when they knew they’d struck gold, that it was time to round up villagers.

Friedhelm dealt with the majority of the tip-offs. He was trusted in that field, able to sniff out what was convoluted, meant to put them off the trail, and what was genuine. Sometimes, if it had been a particularly good day, Hiemer would say that to him, what he’d said before: “Good boy.” At night, that was the voice he heard.  
  
The other soldiers discussed it often, a curiosity for them, a sort of internal conflict. They thought that Friedhelm had disagreed with him on something crucial, done something to fall out of his favor, but the other men would quickly refute that – “He’s Hiemer’s favorite.” It was said so often that Friedhelm was growing tolerant of it, though the first night he’d overheard them saying that his heart had begun to race. He wasn’t so stupid that he couldn’t see it, especially now, once everything had happened. He _did _pay special attention to Friedhelm, and he was the likeliest to be picked from the group.  
  
It was Friday, the sun at its highest in the sky, burning down on the exposed nape of Friedhelm’s neck. He’d been sitting out, smoking, waiting. His hands, trembling with excitement, felt cold, almost numb. In a few minutes they’d get the order, and Pilzno would get its first taste of Nazi terror.  
  
It would take nearly fifteen minutes, but he’d go on foot. Some of the others had already started rounding up, but he’d elected to stay back, giving himself a moment to think. It was the first time in a while now he’d be pulling the trigger. He looked at the weapon, running his fingers across its barrel, excitement kicking back up in his stomach. It was always the same, every time, and yet it still felt new. Like the first time, every time. He put it up to his eye, staring down the barrel, a nervous smile breaking out onto his face.  
  
The thing was, Hiemer would be there this time. Sometimes he was, sometimes he wasn’t, though he made a show of always being there when it was a particularly big group, or something else he deemed important. How he decided what was and what wasn’t, Friedhelm didn’t know.  
  
He glanced cursorily at the watch, too big for his wrist, something he’d picked up in one of the old abandoned houses they’d stayed in at the beginning. Stamping his cigarette out under the sole of his boot, he stood up, holstering his gun.  
  
The trek was quiet. Even the birds seemed to have fallen into an unusual silence, and aside from his own breathing, the only other noise was the occasional breaking branch. It wasn’t until he was very, very close, that he could hear the soft weeping, the shuffling of bodies, men laughing and talking. A chill went through him, the sensation of being close to such destruction.  
  
“Sergeant.” Hiemer was leaning against one of the trees, his camera hanging around his neck, flicking ash from his cigarette. Friedhelm could hear the click and rustle of guns readying. “Come here.”  
  
“Colonel,” Friedhelm said, standing at attention.  
  
“At ease.” Approaching the older man, he folded his arms behind his back, hiding his twitching fingers. “Going to make me proud today, Sergeant Winter?”  
  
“Of course, Colonel,” he said, dipping his head respectfully. “I’m ready.”  
  
“I can tell.” He reached out, tipping Friedhelm’s chin up. Nervously, he tried to glance over his shoulder, but Hiemer gave him a slight shake of the head. “I want to take a photograph of you. A moment we’ll always remember.”  
  
Straightening his narrow shoulders, Friedhelm kept his hands clasped, lifting his chin a touch. “Do you want me to smile, Colonel?” He asked, unsure of himself.  
  
“No. Keep the frown, Sergeant. It suits you.” He winked, lining up the shot, smiling in satisfaction once he’d taken the photograph. “Thank you. Now go, and do what you were born to do, Winter.”

One of the soldiers tossed him a rifle. “First shot is yours, Sergeant.”

Slinging it over his shoulder, he nodded, taking his place. They would slowly line them up, maximizing the building dread. With a shove, they brought a man to stand before Friedhelm, who turned him around quickly to face the ditch. He kept the rifle, but it was his pistol he brought out, drawing back the hammer. His hand was steady.

The blood that blew back on his face was warm, sticky. He didn’t bother to wipe it away.

——

In the aftermath, Friedhelm wandered off, so that the rest of the men were still just within earshot. Now that it was over, he was shaking, so violently it was almost impossible for him to properly light his cigarette. A strand of hair hang lankly over his forehead, and when he pushed it back, he could feel how hot his hands were.  
  
“Sergeant Winter.” He was leaning heavily against the tree, but he did not push himself away upon hearing Hiemer’s voice. A sort of exhaustion was settling in, making its way through his limbs, and he felt as if he could sleep for years. It was the last woman who’d done it to him, thrown him off. Before he’d turned her around, she’d looked him in the eye, her dark hair curling just past her chin. Her eyes were dark and liquid, but she did not cry. It was not fear he saw in her face, but righteous fury.  
  
He had been able to feel Hiemer, lurking close, watching him with that frustratingly neutral expression. One of the other men, standing beside him, had asked simply: “Sergeant, are you going to be all right?”  
  
Hiemer had stretched his arm out along Friedhelm’s, wrapping his finger over his, his mouth inches from Friedhelm's ear. “Pull the trigger, Sergeant.”  
  
Both of them were covered in her blood. He knew that he had vitally, perhaps fatally, let Hiemer down, but it seemed inconsequential. It was her face he saw, the way she had almost smiled, looking at him was if he were nothing. Lower than an insect.  
  
“You disappointed me today.”  
  
“I know, Colonel.” He strained even to hear his own voice, but he couldn’t bring it above a whisper. Hiemer put his hand on Friedhelm’s shoulder, turning him around, pressing him up against the tree. The blood on his face was browning, drying. He was so close now that Friedhelm could smell him, sweat and that peculiar iron-and-salt smell of blood. Placing one hand gently on Friedhelm’s throat, he raised an eyebrow, his mouth hard, thin.  
  
“I expect so much more out of you.”  
  
“It won’t happen again. I swear that to you, Colonel. I’m no coward.”  
  
“Aren’t you?” He tightened the grip on his throat, just enough to put pressure on his trachea. “Prove it to me, then. Show me what you can do.”  
  
“I don’t know how.” Friedhelm curled his fingers around Hiemer’s wrist. Shoving him away, he let himself breathe, his heart pounding so fiercely it was painful. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Colonel.”  
  
Hiemer smiled, perhaps pleased by this flash of defiance. “When I was very young, your age, I was just like you, Sergeant. Afraid. Not weak, but I didn’t know it then. You aren’t weak, Winter, but if you let gentleness win...” He trailed off, taking the cigarette Friedhelm still held tightly in his other hand, drawing in a deep breath. “It will destroy you.”  
  
“I think I am weak.” He’d spoken without thinking, without considering the ramifications. And now he was unable to stop himself. “I’m weak, like everyone thinks. I’m terrified, not of – of any of this. The war doesn’t matter to me. I don’t give a fuck about the war, speaking frankly, Colonel. It’s myself I’m afraid of.”  
  
“Afraid of what?” Hiemer handed the cigarette back to Friedhelm, who took a shaky drag. “Afraid of what you’re capable of? Afraid of the fact that you enjoy it?” He cringed, to hear Hiemer expose him so coolly and with such calculation. “That’s it, then. You’re so afraid of the fact that the experience is pleasurable. It gets easier every time. And one day, you won’t give a fuck, to use your terminology.”  
  
“I don’t feel—“ He ran a hand across his forehead, wicking away the perspiration. “I’m not like they are, Colonel.”  
  
Hiemer’s brows drew together in frustration. “It only bothers you because you let it.”  
  
“You know I’m different.” He wasn’t even sure what he was speaking of. What had happened between them, or something else entirely.  
  
“Yes. Better.” For a moment they stood there together, saying nothing. Friedhelm handed him the cigarette. He took a drag, and stepping very close to Friedhelm, blew a ring of smoke into his face. “There are so many things I could teach you, Winter.” It was the nearest they’d been since that rainy night, a night that seemed to have happened a lifetime ago. The smell of him was overpowering, intoxicating, as dizzying as any liquor. There was a bead of sweat that had formed on his upper lip, and Friedhelm imagined himself running his tongue across that spot, licking it away. “If you’ll only be brave for me.”  
  
“I will be, Colonel. I will be.”  
  
Hiemer reached out, patted Friedhelm’s bloodied jaw. “That’s my boy.”  
  
When he left, and Friedhelm was certain that he was once again completely alone, he touched himself, thinking of Hiemer’s hot breath, the scent of sweat and the stink of blood. Before, he’d never known it had any smell at all. It had been so potent he could taste it. He came in his hand, hearing over and over Hiemer’s words, his breath hitching, stopping for a moment.  
  
His boy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiemer is craving some company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is light on the serious stuff, for the most part; again, internalized homophobia.

A week later, and Friedhelm was doing beautifully. His precision, his accuracy, the coldness in him – all of it inspired by that one conversation. When he would feel Hiemer at his back, he would let the rush of adrenaline run through him, pulsing, knowing that he was going to do well. Counting on it.  
  
It was colder that night, darkness falling earlier. They’d been standing around the fire, discussing the day’s kills, challenging each other’s records. They were staying in a dilapidated old building, though it was not big enough for all of them, forcing them to switch. One night Friedhelm would sleep outside, and then the next he’d be indoors, sleeping on an old mattress they’d laid out across the floor. It was shelter from the wind, but aside from that, it was all the same to him.

Hiemer asked for him. He’d come up to them, with his usual nonchalance, and asked if he’d meet him in his room. The other men glanced at one another. “What’s up?” Asked one of the soldiers, eyeing Friedhelm warily, perhaps worried that if he’d done something wrong, it would spread like a virus.

“I don’t know.”  
  
“I’m sure the prick has impressed the Colonel once again.” The man who’d spoken, a severe-looking blond, rolled his eyes. “Good luck, you fucker.”  
  
Friedhelm blinked.  
  
“I mean it in a friendly way.”  
  
“Thank you.”

Hiemer’s room was warm. Branches scraped noisily across the roof, the wind shushing against the window. It was the only room that still had glass in its windows, reserved, of course, for the Colonel. He’d poised his knuckles to knock, but Hiemer said, “Come in,” anticipating him before he’d even had a chance to prepare himself. He thought he’d been light on his feet. Not light enough.

An old desk sat in the center of the room, cluttered with papers, the only light burning in a lantern sitting in the right corner of the room. It cast them in half-darkness, shadows moving and flickering along the walls. He supposed the old quilts and blankets propped in one corner of the room served as Hiemer’s bed, something that surprised Friedhelm a little. Surely he knew about the mattress in Friedhelm’s room. And if he knew of it, why did he not request for it to be brought to his room?

  
If it was a stroke of kindness, he’d said nothing. But he was a quiet man, not the type to draw notice to his good deeds. In the war, good deeds only got you so far, and his men were well-aware of that fact. “Don’t just stand there,” Hiemer said, sharply. Shaken from his thoughts, Friedhelm took another hesitant step into the room, his throat and mouth dry. The whole scene was too intimate. Never had he been in another man’s room, at least one that was not related to him. A woman’s room, once, where nothing important had happened. But it felt so strange, to be standing there amongst Hiemer’s things, and all the while the memory of their rain-soaked lust was at the forefront of his mind.  
  
He held Hiemer’s gaze for as long as he dared. He knew that he’d done well today, and if he was going to use some excuse to justify being angry with him, Friedhelm was not going to tolerate it.   
  
Hiemer was sitting at his desk, the chair pushed out a little, his legs stretched out before him. His boots were still on, and somehow, even in his half-unbuttoned jacket, he maintained his never-changing look of professionalism. But the glimpse of his neck, his collarbones, the muscle beneath his undershirt was tantalizing. And there was muscle, lots of it, wiry but prominent. It startled Friedhelm, for he’d never really noticed it before, enclosed as he was in that jacket. Hidden away.  
  
He took his cap off, setting it on the desk, while flicking his lighter with one hand. His hair was grown a little longish on top, the sides still short, stubbled. It was hard to look away from his beautiful hands, the length of the fingers, the squareness of his palms. Hands that Friedhelm knew from personal experience to be strong. “Come a little closer.”  
  
Struggling to fight past his apprehension, Friedhelm waited for a moment, observing. Hiemer’s mouth looked soft, as close to gentleness as he’d ever seen those cruel lips. That was worse.  
  
He approached the desk, so that he was standing slightly to Hiemer’s side. He’d considered going on the other side, keeping it between them, but he suspected that Hiemer would have protested. With searing slowness Hiemer let his eyes wander over Friedhelm, from his feet until they finally reached his face. It was a look Friedhelm recognized, had seen on the faces of others. The look a man got when he saw a beautiful woman.  
  
“You did well today, Sergeant.” He reached out, letting his hand rest on the area just above Friedhelm’s hip. “I’m glad to see you took my advice to heart.”  
  
“I did, Colonel. I did well – for you.”  
  
“I know you did,” he said, softly, almost as if he were speaking to a child. “You’re always so good for me.”  
  
Friedhelm closed his eyes, licking his lips. “What did you want, Colonel?”  
  
“Just some company.”  
  
“But why mine?”  
  
He laughed. “Don’t you hear them talking? You’re my favorite.” He moved his hand down, only slightly lower, so that he was cupping the outside of Friedhelm’s hip. “I want you to do something for me, Sergeant.”  
  
“Yes.” He could have asked him anything, if he would just keep pressing there, touching him. It was the touch itself, the pressure of it, that left him breathless.   
  
“Get on your knees.”  
  
“What?” In spite of his eagerness, he couldn’t help his startled gasp. He was scared, afraid of where this was going. But some other part of him, deep and dark, thrilled with excitement.   
  
“Get on your knees, Sergeant Winter.” Kneeling before Hiemer, he pressed his hands against his thighs, beads of sweating rolling between his shoulder-blades. He touched Friedhelm’s forehead, and then with surprising gentleness, knotted his fingers in his sweat-slick hair. Nearly moaning to feel his blunt fingernails scrape across his scalp, Friedhelm dug his own into his thigh, biting down hard on his tongue.   
  
“What do you want me to do to you?” Hiemer whispered, yanking his head up, stroking Friedhelm’s cheek with his free hand.  
  
“I—I don’t know.”  
  
“Oh, come, now. I don’t believe you.”  
  
“I want you to – I want you to kiss me.” Shame burned his face.   
  
Hiemer’s laugh was dark. “So sweet, aren’t you? Just for me.” He kept up his stroking, tightening the grip on his hair ever so slightly, even as he leaned down, pressing his hard mouth to Friedhelm’s. Yet his lips were soft, softer than he’d realized, wetter, too. Hiemer pulled away, whispering, “Open your mouth.”  
  
He did as he asked, more from instinct than from a desire to obey, his lips parting as their mouths met again. The tip of his warm tongue brushed along the inside of Friedhelm’s bottom lip, drawing out a gasp, and Hiemer smiled against his mouth to hear it. He knew he was inexperienced, obviously inexperienced, but in the moment he couldn’t have cared less. Unthinkingly he placed his hand on Hiemer’s inner thigh, a rush of mingled shock and arousal running through him as he heard the older man’s soft, encouraging moan.  
  
In a mimicry of what they’d done before, he licked Hiemer’s upper lip, salty with sweat, agonizingly hot. Grabbing Friedhelm by the lapels of his jacket, he dragged him up and onto his feet, standing with him, pushing him so that he was half-leaning, half-sitting on the desk. Friedhelm tried to start unbuttoning his jacket, but his fingers were shaking too badly, and Hiemer took over, brushing his hands away impatiently.  
  
Placing a soft, tender kiss on the underside of Friedhelm’s jaw, he moved his mouth lower, onto his warm, supple neck. He felt his teeth, raking painfully across his skin, and then his tongue, soothing the wound. He put his hands on the sides of Hiemer’s face, separating them for a moment, just wanting to look at him. His pupils were dark, wide with desire, his mouth red and bruised. Raking a hand through Hiemer’s blondish hair, he let him pull off his jacket, his arms prickling in the sudden cool air.   
  
He could feel how hard Hiemer was, pressed against his thigh, sucking kisses lower and lower until he’d reached the curve of his collarbone. Friedhelm groaned, rolling his hips, wishing it was enough. At this point, he wasn’t sure what _would _be, if there was even such a thing as enough. He yanked Hiemer’s jacket from his shoulders, satisfied to hear the buttons popping, and in a bold and desperate move, pushed his hand underneath his sweat-soaked undershirt.   
  
“Please,” Friedhelm moaned, scraping his nails down Hiemer’s back as the man placed a wet, open-mouthed kiss under his ear. “Please don’t stop.” The truth of the matter was, Friedhelm had no idea what exactly he wanted. It hadn’t been a lie, earlier, but some form of the truth. He _had _wanted Hiemer to kiss him – he’d thought of it constantly – but there was something else, too. Surrounded by so many other men, he often listened to their exploits, for they’d compare the women they’d slept with, talking about who had done what, how long, if it had been good or not. Sexual acts were not something he was totally and completely ignorant of. The one woman he’d been with had done very little for him, not just in the sense of intimacy but because Friedhelm couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it. Not like now. He was so wanton, pressing himself as hard as he possible against Hiemer, the feeling of those strong hands caressing him and clutching the back of his neck causing liquid heat to pool in his abdomen.   
  
Hiemer’s back was hot, leaving Friedhelm’s hands damp with sweat. He could smell it, too, the overwhelming scent of sweat and musk and something particular just to Hiemer. Some type of cologne, funnily enough. Never would he have thought of using it, out here, as isolated as they all were, familiar with each other’s male bodies. Hesitatingly he trailed his fingers up, up, until he reached the swell of Hiemer’s shoulder, taut with muscle. It was the first time he’d really felt another man in such a way, how different and yet still the same.   
  
He pushed Hiemer’s head back, brushing his lips across his bobbing Adam’s apple, tasting him. Groaning, Hiemer moved his hand between them, so that it was resting on the seam of Friedhelm’s trousers, giving him a slight squeeze through the fabric. It was at that moment that Friedhelm, shocked, pulled away, dazed, his mind roiling. “Wait.” He put his hand up, pushing the other man away, needing some space to breathe. “Wait.”  
  
“What’s wrong?” In a display of warmth, Hiemer kissed his cheek, the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Stop. _This _is wrong.”  
  
“It isn’t wrong, Winter.”  
  
“This isn’t normal.” It isn’t normal, he thought, to have another man between your legs, to be so aroused by it, to have the taste of his sweat in your mouth. “This – what we’re doing...”   
  
“Winter,” Hiemer murmured, cupping his jaw in the palm of his hand, “You aren’t the first man I’ve made love with.”  
  
“I thought – I thought you were disgusted, that night. I thought that you...” Friedhelm shook his head. Tears were burning their way into the backs of his eyes.  
  
“If I felt that way, I wouldn’t be here now. Touching you.” His warm mouth hovered at Friedhelm’s ear. “I want you.”  
  
“I don’t know what I want.” It was this that made Hiemer pull away. He was mussed, disheveled, looking better than he ever had before. His undershirt was wet with sweat, sticking to the planes of his stomach. “I don’t even – I know nothing about you.”  
  
“I’ve seen you at your most vulnerable. Does that count for nothing?”  
  
“I haven’t seen you weak. Never.”  
  
“And that frightens you?”  
  
“Everything does.” Pushing onto his feet, Friedhelm stood there, clad only in his trousers and undershirt, thinking that he might as well have been completely naked. Unresistant he let Hiemer pull him in, let him pull his head back by the hair, their parted, wet mouths inches apart.   
  
“Then go back to your room, Friedhelm, and touch yourself while you think of me.” Noting Friedhelm’s gasp, he smiled, brushed their noses together. “You already have, then? Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
Shocked, he stumbled backwards out of Hiemer’s embrace. The first time he’d said his name, and with such lust he could barely stand to think of it. Stay, he told himself. Don’t ruin this. Don’t ruin your chance.  
  
But he couldn’t, and Hiemer would not have let him. He stood there, expectant, waiting for him to go to the door, but as he did he softly asked him to wait. “Joachim,” he said, and Friedhelm had to strain to hear him. “My name is Joachim, but everyone calls me Achim.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for consensual violence and power play.

A week passed before there was another fruitful tip-off. Friedhelm went straight to Hiemer, who did not smile but only touched his upper arm. He had backed off, if only slightly, as if giving Friedhelm time to think, to work through whatever it was he was dealing with. He appreciated it, but he found that instead of being relieved, the strongest thing he felt was disappointment.  
  
His performance was not perfect that day, but near enough. He faltered for a moment, but it had nothing to do with letting his emotions get the best of him, but a faulty mechanism in a borrowed pistol he’d been using. Afterwards, they’d gone back to their makeshift camp, smoking, not talking.  
  
But he was, as always, keyed up. And his mind would not rest, stuck in a perpetual state of thinking about Hiemer, about what he was doing, about why he had not spoken to him today. He was startled out of his skin to hear Hiemer's voice, and the other men looked at one another, suspicious, as he joined their little group.  
  
Friedhelm remained silent. He listened to them ask Hiemer questions, fascinated as they were by this old hand at war, but he found himself looking at Hiemer’s – _Achim’s – _neck, his hands, the curious way he had of always flicking his cigarette before he placed it between his lips. He envisioned himself reaching out, even there in front of all these ruthless soldiers, and touching that back he had felt bare.  
  
Perhaps aware of Friedhelm’s intent stare, Hiemer turned back, catching his eye. It was immediate, immediate and clear, what was going to happen next. Calmly Hiemer came up with something for them all to do, and with a lighthearted grumble and complaint, the men went off, obedient to a fault. He hadn’t even heard what Hiemer had been saying, only saw his lips moving, forming the words.  
  
Carefully peeling off his gloves, Hiemer dropped them to the ground, before taking Friedhelm by the hand. It was a struggle to keep up with him, but he let himself be dragged, let Hiemer take him wherever he wanted. Excitement pulsed through him, beat through his heart. It seemed as if they’d walked forever, a moment, not at all. But finally, when they had reached a clearing deep within the heart of the woods, their mouths met in a rush.  
  
“Made up your mind?” Hiemer asked, panting into his mouth, making easy work of discarding his jacket and Friedhelm’s.  
  
“Yes.” It was firm, clear, the most confident yes he’d ever given. He wanted this, without knowing how high the cost would be. In the back of his mind he was aware that someone could stumble upon them, see them kissing and touching and desperate for one another, but it seemed far away, something too distant to really be possible. “Achim.”  
  
“Friedhelm,” he said, as if testing it. “Friedhelm.” They looked at one another, their eyes searching, savoring whatever it was that was happening between them. They kissed again, this time more roughly, and it felt inseparable for him, violence and sex.  
  
He pulled his shirt off over his head, dropping it to the ground, breathing heavily. “Your turn,” he told Hiemer, almost sharply.  
  
“Don’t forget yourself.”  
  
“This is as equal as we’ll ever be.”  
  
“Is that so?” Hiemer said, clearly pleased by the challenge. Without forewarning he grabbed Friedhelm by the back of the neck, a crushing grip, and this kiss had teeth. He took Friedhelm’s lower lip between his own, sucking a little, earning a breathy moan. “That’s what I thought,” Hiemer whispered, running his hand over Friedhelm’s cock, smiling at the sound of his audible swallow. “You like being my little bitch.”  
  
Friedhelm laughed, for there was a hint of amusement glinting in Hiemer’s eyes. Still holding the back of Friedhelm’s neck, he raised his hand, and slapped him, so hard that Friedhelm’s ear was ringing. He stood there, open-mouthed with shock, thrown by Hiemer’s soft smile. He did it again, this time more gently, ghosting his cool fingers across the area he’d struck once he was done.  
  
His cheek hurt. It was burning, stinging, but the pain only served to intensify all the other sensations he was experiencing. In an attempt to hide his face, he went to bury it in the crook of Hiemer’s neck, but with a strong thumb pressing painfully against his collarbone, he kept him at arm’s length. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Fuck you,” Friedhelm said, brushing just the tip of his tongue over Hiemer’s bottom lip.  
  
He pinned Friedhelm’s wrists behind his own back, smiling as he struggled. Friedhelm, burning with arousal and fear and things he couldn’t name, spit in Hiemer’s face, the spittle landing just above his upper lip. Slowly, not releasing him from the grip that was growing uncomfortable, Hiemer leaned forward, kissing Friedhelm, pushing their tongues together.  
  
It was a moment before he freed him. He liked seeing him like that, the discomfort in his eyes, his pupils blown. Shoving him onto the ground, Friedhelm fell atop him, their bodies flush together. Reaching down between them, Hiemer undid the buttons on Friedhelm’s trousers, slipping his hand inside, both of them gasping as he closed his hand around his hot, hard cock.  
  
For too short of a time Hiemer continued to stroke him, listening to his little gasps and moans, before he flicked his fingers against the jutting bone of Friedhelm’s hip. His brow furrowed with pain, but he kept moving himself, trying to find any point of contact. It was too much. Pre-come leaked from the flushed head, and he pressed his forehead to Hiemer’s, losing himself, wondering if he would die, his heart was beating so fast.  
  
The other man’s hand was calloused, rough, and somehow better for it. Now that he’d felt them, Friedhelm thought that his own thin, narrow hands could never compare. Shyly, he whispered, “I want to see you, too.”  
  
Only too happy to oblige, Friedhelm helped him as he pulled his shirt off, and Hiemer shuddered when their bare chests touched. “Touch me,” Hiemer murmured, his fingers finding their way back to Friedhelm, running his thumb across the sensitive underside of his cock. He was afraid, but he did as Hiemer asked, undoing the front of his trousers and slipping his hand inside, startled by just how warm Hiemer felt under his palm.  
  
“Like that?” Friedhelm asked, barely able to form the question while Hiemer was squeezing him, stroking him. He knew it was the same, that it was just like touching himself, but it felt worlds away.  
  
“Harder,” Hiemer panted, tightening his own grip.  
  
Their lips joined together, burning, Friedhelm’s whole body aching. “Fuck,” he panted, pressing his eyes closed, thrusting into Hiemer’s brutal grip. “I’m going to—Achim—“  
  
“You can come,” Hiemer whispered, breathy, their rhythm stuttering. “Friedhelm.” He did, into the palm of Hiemer’s hand, and the orgasm was so powerful he saw stars. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, and now his own experiments felt boyish, foolish. He didn’t know if he should be embarrassed that he’d come so quickly, but somehow, he wasn’t. Lost in his own pleasure, he’d ceased to keep touching Hiemer, but he’d clasped his hand over Friedhelm’s, groaning at the added pressure.  
  
“Keep going,” he demanded, his eyes glazed with lust. “Fuck. That’s—you’re mine,” he moaned, tilting his head back, exposing the vulnerable length of his throat. Friedhelm sucked on his neck until he could see the purple bruise beginning to form, and at that moment Hiemer came, hot and warm on his hand, dampening both of their trousers.  
  
For a moment they simply stared at one another. Friedhelm rolled away, onto his back, the ground unpleasantly cool after he’d been pressed to Hiemer’s heat. His breathing was less erratic, but his mind was playing it over and over again, a constant loop of not only his orgasm, but witnessing Hiemer’s. It had been mesmerizing, his open mouth, the way all of his muscles had grown so incredibly tense. In the aftermath, he was awkward, uncouth, aware of his inexperience and youth.  
  
Hiemer, holding himself up on one elbow, watched Friedhelm. Not a good sign, Friedhelm thought, not bothering to look him in the face. He was surprised when Hiemer leaned over him, kissing him softly, with just an intoxicating hint of his tongue, before putting his sticky, still warm hand to Friedhelm’s mouth. “Go on,” he said, forcing Friedhelm’s lips apart, slipping a finger inside.  
  
Embarrassed but excited, Friedhelm licked his hand and fingers clean. The taste was salty, but not unpleasant. “That’s a good boy.”  
  
“Thank you,” Friedhelm blurted out. “Thank you for – all of it.”  
  
“I wasn't acting out of altruism. The first day I saw you, all I could think about was that dark hair, your pretty straight nose, that mouth...” He chuckled, watching Friedhelm’s cheeks burn. “And fucking you.” He laughed again, this time louder. “And it still embarrasses you, after everything we’ve done, for me to say that. You’re quite unusual.”  
  
“Thanks,” Friedhelm grumbled, affronted. Then, hesitantly, he asked, “Will—is this it?”  
  
“What do you mean?” Hiemer ran his hand over the pale skin of Friedhelm’s stomach. “You came, didn’t you?”  
  
“Not that – I mean – this was all…” Struggling to find the words, he looked up at the trees, their branches rustling in the wind. “I liked what we did. But I didn’t know if this is the only time it’ll ever happen.”  
  
“No. I have a feeling that after this, I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.” He licked the sweat from Friedhelm’s collarbone, getting a shiver out of him.  
  
“Good. I want your hands on me, all the time.”  
  
“Eager, aren’t we?”  
  
“I wish you wouldn’t tease me.”  
  
“And forego the pleasure of seeing you blushing? I don’t think so.” Hiemer rolled on top of him, pinning his hands above his head, his smile sinister. “And don’t forget that I’m still your Colonel.”  
  
“I won’t,” Friedhelm said, wondering how long it would be before he was hard again. “Colonel.”


End file.
